


A Matter of Moments

by lemotmo



Category: Without a Trace
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:25:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemotmo/pseuds/lemotmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Seven hours, twenty-six minutes and fourteen seconds ago, Danny's life still made sense.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Moments

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the process of transferring my best fics from Livejournal to this Ao3 account. As I read the stories again, I can clearly see the way my writing-style has changed (for the better) over the years. Some of these stories could use some re-editing. However, I have decided to leave the fics as they are. Each story clearly reflects the way I looked upon the world at the moment of writing. I kinda like that.
> 
>  **This story is a repost from a fic written in June 2005**.

Four hours, twenty-one minutes and fifteen seconds ago, Danny Taylor let himself into his building, just as he had done every day since the day he moved in. He hadn’t, however, stopped by the grocery store on his way from work to pick up some things for the elderly Spanish lady that lived on the second floor. And afterwards, he didn’t go up to the third floor to pay Graham Campbell a visit and ask him about his day. So, Graham never had a chance to tell him about the grey alley-cat that had somehow managed to sneak into his home today and that had attacked his dog ‘Frankie’. The adventure of him calling in the vet, who chased the cat all through the apartment, and how he briefly felt sorry when the cat was taken away to the last place he’d ever see, remained an anecdote untold.

In exchange, Danny never talked to him about Jeanie Riker, the missing girl that had turned up alive and well at a bus stop in only eight hours from the moment of disappearance. He was unable to inform Graham that the girl had been crying all the way back to the Federal Plaza, yelling hysterically that she didn’t want to go home to ‘him’ anymore. The story about how Jeanie had told him about her stepfather’s abuse never reached Mr Campbell’s ears. Afterwards, he didn’t leave Graham Campbell’s apartment with a vague promise of going out with his daughter—

_“Because a nice young man like you would be good for her, instead of all those good-for-nothings she goes out with.”_

Danny didn’t do, tell or hear any of those things because he was never there.

Four hours, twenty minutes and three seconds ago, he entered his apartment, as usual. But he didn’t turn on the lights or switched on the TV to watch some nameless sit-com about a straight woman living with her gay friend. Neither did he strip off his clothes and take a shower. The light on his answering machine was flashing an angry red, but he had yet to push the button to listen. The kitchen desolately bathed in the eerie shades from the street lights outside, never saw any action. No cluttering with pots and pans, no dirty dishes in the sink.

Four hours, seventeen minutes and sixteen seconds ago, Danny opened a kitchen cupboard, only to dig up a long-forgotten, dusty whiskey glass. Twenty-one seconds later he sat down on the couch and produced a brown bag from under the –slightly too big- black overcoat he was still wearing. Quickly he tore the bag away from the content to reveal a green bottle of whiskey. Twisting and pulling he got rid of the cap and moments later, held the bottle up to his nose to take in a whiff of the strong odour. Another ten seconds and the silence was broken by the sound of liquid being poured into the glass. With a thud, the glass and bottle were firmly placed on top of the small coffee table. Reaching inside the coat pocket he produced his cell-phone which he then placed next to the glass.

~

Right now, just like four hours, eleven minutes and forty-eight seconds ago, he’s still sitting, waiting, unwavering, not moving. Because, perhaps childishly, he believes movement might bring bad luck. Numbness has taken over his body long ago, but he doesn’t really care. He doesn’t care if he might not be able to move ever again, as long as it holds the bad news at bay. He doesn’t close his eyes, for it brings back images that plague and haunt him. Things he could have done flash through his mind with the speed of light, leaving him feeling increasingly guilty with every passing second. And still he doesn’t move. ‘Cause that’s the deal he struck and that’s the promise he’ll stick to.

~

You see, four hours, fifteen minutes and seven seconds ago, he spoke out loud, voice wavering and directed to the heavens. _“I won’t move,”_ he quietly announced, voice threatening to break under the pressure of grieve, _“I’ll just sit here, with this glass in front of me, but I won’t touch it. You hear me? This is my one condition … you save him and not a drop of that whiskey will leave the glass. But, I swear to you, if you let him die … all deals are off and you can be sure as hell that I’ll kick back that drink so fast you won’t even have time to send a lightning bold my way.”_ From then on he has just been sitting, waiting and anticipating that one phone-call that could make or break him.

Two hours, sixteen minutes and fifty-six seconds ago, his eyes were still firmly rooted to the amber liquid reflecting the pale light creeping through the windows. The whiskey was calling him, beckoning him. Nothing in his world existed, beyond the glass, the cell-phone and the fear. The latter was lurking in the back of his mind, screaming to get out, paralysing his common sense and telling him that he was thirsty as hell and he could really use a drink. Never before had he needed a drink so much. Never before had it taken so much of his strength to resist.

One hour, nineteen minutes and thirty-one seconds ago, Danny started thinking about the penetrating smell and taste of alcohol, the texture of the substance on his tongue. He flinched when a vivid memory grabbed a hold of him. His eyes finally slid close when he thought back to the exact moment when he had taken his first sip. He could have said ‘no’ then and his life would have been so different. He could have just got the hell out of there. But, instead he had stayed, had put the glass to his lips and had poured some of the strong-smelling liquid into his mouth. He had savoured the taste on his tongue and finally … had swallowed.

And that had been it … the birth of a new Danny Alvarez. One that had cursed, one that had hit, and one that had become extremely aggressive whenever he was drunk. He had never much liked that Danny, but he knows, understands and accepts that the man is still in him somewhere, hiding and waiting, threatening to break out when he lets his guard down at the most vulnerable of times. So many of his memories are stained with the smell of alcohol and looking at the glass, he realises that he’s on the brink here. He’s willing to let the worst of him back out again. All it will take is one word … one sentence … one confirmation of death … just ‘one’ of everything.

‘Cause six hours, forty-three minutes and 4 seconds ago, one bullet changed it all. A bullet meant for him. Aimed straight at his heart. A bullet that would have hit him and probably killed him if Martin hadn’t been there. Martin, who had seen the barrel of a gun coming from behind that garbage container. Martin, who had yelled his name and had pushed him away while jumping in front of him. Martin, who had slumped down to the ground with a bullet caught in his chest. Martin, lying in a pool of his own blood, coughing up red bubbles. Martin who, while the NYPD set in to chase after the shooter, blindly started babbling and calling out his partner’s name.

_“Danny …Danny—can’t breathe …Danny …Danny … are you o-okay? Danny …”_

When, three seconds later, Danny finally processed what had taken place mere moments ago, he regained enough sense to get up and crawl over to his fallen friend. Only a second later he took Martin into his arms and slightly lifted his torso, to relieve the pressure of his chest, to help him breathe. The palm of his hand pressed tightly against the wound, blood welling up and seeping through his fingers, forming little red rivulets running down his hands, only to disappear under his sleeves.

_“Martin, you stupid idiot. What the hell did you do that for, huh? He wasn’t even aiming at you? Why?” he frantically questioned the man, searching for an answer._

_“Y-You have to ask?” Martin replied with a ghost of his usual grin settling on his lips._

It took Danny another five seconds to analyse this new information, come to a startling conclusion, feel a brief jolt of excitement, only to be confronted with the truth again. When he looked down at his hand clutching the wound, he noticed that the red rivulets had morphed into rivers and for a moment he was morbidly fascinated with the sight of burgundy red slowly replacing the colour of his once pristine white sleeves. Then, somewhere in the background, a cop yelled out for an ambulance and he was startled out of his reverie. Once again he focussed his entire being on the man in his arms.

_“Damnit, Fitz … you picked a great time to tell me,” he said, tightening his hold on the other man._

_“Yeah, S-Sam always said … I had the worst timing when it came to …r- romance. Sorry ‘bout that,” Martin got out before giving in to a violent cough._

_“No need to be sorry for anything,” Danny softly replied, “Listen, the ambulance is on its way, you’re going to be fine. You hear me? Martin?” he pleaded desperately._

_“Not … not … this time, D-Danny,” Martin choked out, “I-I … can’t breathe. It looks … as though you’ll have to … to open that shoe store by yourself.”_

_“No, Marty,” the other man whispered, eyes moist with unshed tears, “It won’t do. It’d just be a failing in the make without you. You’re the one who knows about accounting. And besides … what would I do without you, huh?” he asked, voice almost completely failing him._

_“That’s true, between us … I’ve always been the … smart one,” Martin quipped back, the corner of his blood-smeared mouth turning up briefly, forming a frightening, almost clownish grin, “Danny … you’ll be fine. You’re re—resilient like that … you’ll bounce b-back.. Just tell … J-Jack that I’m glad I got to work with him. And, Viv … Sam … tell them--”_

_“I know Fitz, it’s okay. But, you hang on to those thoughts, okay? And you tell them yourself,” Danny said, removing his hand briefly from the wound to place a gentle finger on his partner’s blood-stained lips, “Martin, you’re wrong about one thing, though … I won’t be okay if – if you …I won’t bounce back from that. If you …God, if I can’t even say it, then how the hell am I supposed to live with it?”_

_“Simple … you’ll just … live for both of us,” unsteady blue eyes meeting his own and Danny suddenly realised with startling clarity that this was Martin, saying goodbye._

_“Danny, where are you? C-Can’t see. Don’t leave … don’t leave me,” body convulsing and a surprisingly strong hand clutching his upper arm, willing him to stay._

_“I won’t Martin, I won’t. I’m right here and there’s no where else I’d rather be than right here. You hear me? But you need to promise me you won’t leave me either. You have to stay with me, man … please,” he begged._

_“Danny, I can’t--”_

_“What? Martin? Martin!”_

Six hours, forty-one minutes and two seconds ago Martin Fitzgerald’s body convulsed heavily one last time before it went limp in his partner’s arms when his heart failed to do its job and –for one brief moment- Danny’s world came to a halt and time stood still.

And in that moment, it suddenly hit him full force that he would not ever hear Martin’s voice again. Never see his smile again or see his facial expression change when his analytical mind was brooding over a particularly challenging disappearance. Silent rage would never settle over his features again whenever a case hit too close to home. The touch of Martin’s hand would never reach him again and as a result the accompanied shiver would never course through his body again. And a pitiful wail ripped through the silence of the night.

_“Nooooooooooooooooo--”_

Six hours, thirty-six minutes and seventeen seconds ago Danny had been sitting on the ground, drenched in Martin’s blood, sobbing frantically, when Jack had arrived. Gently, Jack’s long, black overcoat had been draped around his shivering shoulders and he had been ushered to the car. In the distance the sound of sirens could still be heard, but they were getting further and further away until they stopped completely. Sirens, from the ambulance that had –only three minutes ago- taken Martin to the hospital, medics furiously pumping his chest in an attempt to restart his heart.

_“I’ll take you home to change,” Jack informed him._

_“No … hospital.”_

_“Danny, you look like you’ve been to hell and back again. Maybe you should go home first, take a shower and then you could still go to the hospital after? I sent Sam over, so she’ll call us with an update, and if …” suddenly , his weary voice slightly wavered, not able to finish the sentence he’d begun to say._

_“Please, Jack …” a short, quiet plea, filled with anguish and something else Jack couldn’t quite define. But, more than enough to convince him that, right now, there was no other possible destination than the hospital._

~

Now, five hours, fifty minutes and fourteen seconds after Jack finally managed to convince him to go home to rest for a while, sixteen minutes after the doctor had told them that Martin’s heart was beating again and that he had gone into surgery, a high-pitched shrieking noise pierces Danny’s thoughts and concentration. The cell-phone.

~

A few days later, Viv will ask him how he reacted when the phone started ringing, but he won’t tell her how he had struggled to get his rigid muscles to work again, after all those hours of sitting still. He will never mention how close to the edge he was when he picked the phone up from the table with his right hand and –simultaneously- picked up the glass of whiskey with his left. He won’t share with her how he had replayed every moment he had ever spent with Martin in his mind. All those looks and touches that had never led anywhere until they had become lost moments and missed opportunities. The conversations that had conveyed so much but at the same time had revealed nothing. And the last thing he thought of before he picked up--

‘This is it, one or the other. Sober or drunk … life or death.’

And truth be told, he won’t even recall pressing the call button with a shaking finger and putting the phone to his ear or how –at that exact moment- everything in and around the apartment went completely still, as if the entire world was holding its breath. By then, it will all be a forgotten memory.

All he’ll be able to talk about is how the silence was shattered by his shaky voice with a simple, “Thank God,” and how the world exhaled again, followed by the usual city noises penetrating the boundaries of his home. He’ll tell her how he slowly put the phone back on the table and stared at the glass in his left hand. Viv will hear the story of how he got up, walked over to the kitchen sink, tipped the glass and watched how the amber liquid disappeared down the drain. And—

_“And then I just … I don’t know what it was really,” he’ll say to her, “I guess I just finally allowed myself to give in to the fear I’d been bottling up.”_

\-- how he had sought support against the kitchen counter because his knees were trembling and suddenly he wasn’t all too sure that they wouldn’t buckle under the weight of his body. How he finally gave in to the tiredness and slowly sank to the floor, chest convulsing painfully as heavy sobs and tears escaped him. But, mostly, how he kept repeating the same words--

_“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you …”_

\-- while he replayed Jack’s words in his head, over and over again.

_“He’s okay Danny. The doctor says that once his heart started pumping again it just kept going, even at times when they were sure that it wouldn’t. I always knew he was a stubborn son of a bitch, but this? I don’t know why, but for some reason someone up there was looking out for him and decided to give him a second chance. I guess they realised that he still has too much to live for.”_

**FIN**


End file.
